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Jeongguk looks holy in the smoke.
The room is full of it, the lingering whisps of rolling white stagnant and yet sweet as the day pouring in through the hastily-opened curtains; the afternoon is gentle, hazy as the weightlessness of Jimin’s head. He feels light as air, full of warmth and clouds and Jeongguk.
Jeongguk, Jeongguk, all around him, half underneath him and half around, his knee hitched around Jimin’s hip and bare toes poking into his bare calf. One of Jeongguk’s old t-shirts hangs loose around Jimin’s own shoulders, reaching mid-thigh and white against the gold of his skin, the pale ruffled state of the bedsheets beneath them, twisted underneath their lazy movements. It all feels twice-worn and familiar, safe as the warmth of Jeongguk around him. The boy has found his way into his lungs, his veins, as sure as the smoke they share between them.
The blunt’s roach lies, cherry half-aglow, still smoking a little in the lazy way of the day around them, on a plate Jimin watched Jeongguk steal from one of Yoongi’s kitchen cabinets — separated since the Smashed Slam Dunk Mug incident that Jimin will deny he had a part in until the end of time because Yoongi is scary as fuck when he’s mad — and lay down on the floor by the huge bed that Jimin sometimes thinks he loves just as much as Jeongguk.
“Hey,” Jeongguk says, and his voice is low over the back of Jimin’s neck, like the sun, like summer in the heat of midday, burning away all he can’t hide, could never hide from this boy behind him and around him and who is holding his heart between his palms and yet Jimin trusts him so wholly with it. With him. “Jimin-ah. Baby.”
And that voice; the one that follows him everywhere. He misses Jeongguk everywhere, all the time. It scares him in a way that cuts down to the bone. Cleaving and messy. Jimin is hot all over.
“Yeah,” he murmurs back, his voice low with disuse. “‘M here, Gguk.”
Jeongguk grunts, a little guttural sound that has a pleasant heat spreading through Jimin’s belly, too lazy to be anything but a rolling sweetness. “We finished?”
“The weed?” Jimin rolls, half-heavy and half light as the balloon-filled airiness that’s expanding in his brain; the only thing holding him down, grounding him, is Jeongguk. His anchor. He lands a little too close, limbs awkwardly tangled except for how they’re not. The closeness feels more intoxicating than the smoke that lingers over every millimetre of them, more familiar. He breathes in the soft stale-sweetness of the marijuana as he noses along Jeongguk’s jaw, the defined lines of him, the soft gold of his skin. “Almost. One hit left, I think.”
Jeongguk reaches up blindly, dark waves of hair hanging down into his eyes. Jimin can only half make him out, in the shaft of light pouring in through the windows, little snapshots of his being: the bruises that litter his knuckles from when he’d gone to box at the gym the other day and forgotten his bandages and carried on anyway because he’s Jeongguk and he’s impossible; the dark fringe of his eyelashes framing the caramel-coffee eyes that make Jimin feel like a poet in how he wants to weave the frayed ends of how they make his chest ache together into some kind of comprehensive form, give structure to the abstract; the black of his hoodie and the half-moons under his eyes, daubed just a little.
Jeongguk’s hand slides up Jimin’s neck, resting in the curve. His fingers sketch out the path of the dark blooms he’d left along the line of Jimin’s jaw earlier, painted them out in indigoes and yellows and greens like a garden of forget-me-nots: Jeongguk sketched across Jimin’s skin. “Wanna share?” His thumb digs into the delicate space just beneath his ear where they both know he’s left the darkest mark. It edges close enough to pain, honey-hot, to make Jimin shiver.
Jimin hums, a little soft sound that reverberates around the bedroom like an echo. Fills the hazy space. Everything stinks of their high, the turned-over laziness of it. Everything is blurred at the edges, but Jeongguk is solid against him, the scent of sweat and boy and every tiny thing that makes up Jeongguk, the half of Jimin’s world and body-mind heat pressed against him. They fit together like puzzle pieces that don’t quite work, moulded into shape by each other. Softened a little at their edges.
He does look holy, Jimin thinks, haloed by the light and squinting a little when Jimin pulls back to look him in the eye. Framed. The world bends around him, paints the background for his existence.
“You okay?” Jeongguk says, quite but real, solid, a sound amongst the fluff of Jimin’s mind.
God, he’s fucked. “Just,” Jimin tries, but the words are fuzzy on his tongue, sticking like candy. He’s never been too good with his words, not a lyricist like Yoongi or a performer like Taehyung; he can’t write like Namjoon can. He’s a med student: his world is made of structures and formulae and things he can work out in a process of straight lines and rationality. Jimin has always liked things that work in tandem, in clean lines. Jeongguk has never been straightforward. Jeongguk is his only exception. “Just happy,” he says, finally, and it sounds lame but Jeongguk’s smile is real and warm, eyes curving upwards.
“Yeah,” he sighs back, and he stretches back on the bed, arms flung above his head and back arching a little; Jimin’s eyes follow the movement, how his top rides up and the scoped plane of his stomach becomes visible in a golden strip, against the dark of the hoodie and the white of the bedsheets. He’s too heavy to do anything. The room is too relaxed for him to slide their bodies together, to crawl over his figure and mark out his journey with his mouth.
“You’re so perfect.” The words tumble from Jimin’s mouth like smoke, rolling and smooth in a contained cacophony of honesty, raw from his throat. “Just— everything. All of you.”
“Nah,” Jeongguk says, and maybe Jimin’s not about to roll onto him but Jeongguk, in a movement surprisingly fluid for their collective level of intoxication, folds himself over Jimin with his hands planted on either side of his head, knees bracketing his hips. It’s closeness anew, all the weight of potentiality lingering in breath’s reach. “That’s you.”
Jimin scrunches his face up, half in mock-disgust, half in an attempt to process the words. Everything feels a shade removed, just Jeongguk close close close. Exactly where he wants him.
Their mouths meet as Jeongguk leans down, crashes into him like a wave and he’s not drowning but floating, opening up easy and hot beneath his lips, his tongue. He lets him in like he’s coming home, lets Jeongguk ease him open and explore the intricacies of him. Teeth bite down on his bottom lip so gently it feels like a tease; he sucks lightly on Jeongguk’s tongue, drawing a throaty gasp from the younger.
They fit like differences, Jimin thinks, thoughts half-materialised as Jeongguk licks into him. Like Spring rolling into Summer, like how the stars are brightest on the darkest of nights. Like the sun pouring into a bedroom full of heat and smoke and intertwined limbs.
His legs come up to slide around Jeongguk’s middle, knees fitting into the slender curve of his waist and pulling him down, closer. It’s not going anywhere. It’s just closeness, closeness, together.
Jeongguk draws back, and Jimin chases him half a breath as he goes, tugging one last kiss as they separate. Jeongguk’s breath fans across his face.
“Shotgun?” It’s a question, a teasing assumption.
Jimin wants to slide a hand through his hair, dark and almost at his chin, so he does, tugging through the waves that he pulled on a little harder last night. The duality of them: hands in hair in the heat of a high, when they’re so impossibly close in the skin-flesh-bone kind of way, when skin gleams with sweat and collarbones shine; hands in hair in the warmth of the lazy afternoon sun. The barriers between them: Jimin’s (Jeongguk’s) shirt, Jeongguk’s (Jeongguk’s) hoodie, and nothing at all.
Jeongguk slides off of him, and he raises himself with his arms, sits in a disrupted heap of bare thighs and too-big t-shirt and blond hair pulled back from his face but half falling out of its tie. Dishevelled, utterly, by Jeongguk and the almost-finished cause of the smoke and the stink and the haze.
“C’me here,” Jeongguk says, reaching down to pick what’s left of the blunt from Yoongi’s stolen plate.
Jimin shifts over, and in a sudden flash of lucidity, throws a leg over Jeongguk’s lap, settling on his thighs and hands on the broad solidity of his shoulders. Like birds after flight, coming home.
Jeongguk doesn’t say anything, but raises the blunt to his lips and takes it, breathes in as his eyes gaze heavily into Jimin’s. His free hand rests on the curve of Jimin’s hip, steadying him in his lap. The palm, the long fingers, warm through the thin material of his shirt.
He knows exactly when to lean in, and press their mouths gently together, lips falling open just enough.
It falls through him like stone, like air and pumice and all things fringed with feather. Holy and sacrilegious all together. Jeongguk beneath him, two hands on his two hips with the finished blunt discarded. Steadying, anchoring. Familiar.
Jeongguk. His familiar, warm, solid, real, here, holy, beautiful, bruised knuckles warm eyes piercings up his ear golden in the sun. Jimin feels the last sweetness of the high ripple through him, like feet in warm water. Barefoot in a lake. Bare feet against the bedsheets, bare thighs across Jeongguk’s lap.
Jimin exhales, and watches the smoke rise to the ceiling in its tumbling dance. Hazily, he feels the wet heat of Jeongguk mouthing across the base of his neck, down along his collarbones and then up to his jaw, in a slow, chest-aching way.
“Love you,” Jeongguk murmurs, and the words burn and sear forever, a mark on his skin. Smoking among the love bites. “Baby. My baby, Jimin-ah. Love you.”
Jimin sighs, happy and slow. The room is light as day, smoke-filled and holy. Sunshine and white bedsheets; Jeongguk and soft edges. He’s fucked forever.
Hazily, he thinks that he’s pretty fucking fine with that.
“Love you, Gguk,” he says back. They melt together, two pieces that are golden against each other. Spring rolling into Summer. “Love you too.”